Clockwork
by faunaFlorist
Summary: In which post-Reichenbach John follows the routines to keep from mundaneness.


The crowd was small for a typical weekday, but the tourists had no lack of dumb excitement. They were enthralled by the tea ceremony, the delicate movement of the russet clay and pale green liquid that symbolized longevity and good fortune to its participants. Subtle steam rose from the three cups in front of the museum worker, their earthy aroma swirling in the air and breathed into the lungs of the gaudy Americans. One of them disobeyed the clearly-labeled signs, rummaged through her purse, and took various flash photographs. Another little child asked his mother when they were going to get lunch.

John stood towards the side, in the back of the group. He'd seen the ceremony before, many times. It was just something he did now to keep a rhythm and tempo in the thrall of repetitious days. Ever since Soo Lin "resigned", the job of keeping the tea ceremony running had fallen to a mousy-haired girl in her early twenties, short and skinny, who looked like she could barely lift the pot let alone pour it neatly. The tourists didn't care. Frankly, neither did John.

The girl finished the ceremony, ran the courtesies of thanking the audience and promoting current exhibits, and then began packing up as the crowd dispersed. John lingered a moment too long, however, and she solicited him.

"John Watson!" she beamed, wiping down the teapot. "A reliable face as always! What's new today, hmm?"

John fidgeted. "Uhm, nothing really," he said, adjusting the sleeves on his navy jacket. "Just a, uh, typical Wednesday. Morning off, and all that." He tried to leave the conversation again.

"You know, John," the girl said, "You come here so often, you should get one of our member cards! Gives you discounts on these special events, you know." She smiled like a child dispensing a secret. "Keeps you in the loop."

"Thanks," he replied, "but I'm all right. Really. But, ah, thanks for the offer." Before she could say another word he turned and walked out, navigating the impeccably clean museum hallways and walking out onto the bustling sidewalk. It was just after eleven; the vestiges of clock-tower booming catching him as he set off along the street. It would have been more efficient to take a cab back, but the former soldier thought it better to walk—and besides, the day wasn't that bad. A slight breeze picked up, chilly if he wasn't wearing a jacket, and he caught a trace of smoke on the wind.

_Charcoal, probably from a street cart, must have just opened for the lunch crowd. Burned something from the smell of it._

_Oh, stop it. You're thinking like him. _He sighed, shoved his hands further into his pockets, and walked on.

He always had Wednesday mornings off work; his boss knew how important the tea ceremonies were to him and let him have his leisure time until 1:30. No matter how many patients came in, they could afford to wait for someone who was just as hurt as they to take a little medicine.

He settled into a table for two by the street-side window, Angelo quickly bringing him a pasta dish, on the house. John muttered brief thanks, turning towards the window. He twirled his food absently with a fork, more interested with the London life rushing by than his own lunch. A bustling man in a business suit hailed a taxicab. A young couple walked a pair of dogs past the window. A woman with chin held high gathered her unnecessary furs closer to her chest. Two Asian women, a graffiti artist in an alleyway, a tourist in magenta heels.

It was amazing how despite his best efforts, all John could see were the allusions of past cases.

He chewed absently at the pasta, its savory taste barely registering. He liked to switch up the Wednesday meals on occasion, another attempt to break the mundaneness of what his life has become. It's why he kept to the museum tea ceremonies, why he walked places instead of rode—the little things distracted him enough to keep from resigning from the world entirely. His job was stable enough, but of course it was nothing compared to his previous line of work.

People at his new job always asked stupid questions. Where were you this morning? Why weren't you at the staff party? What's so bloody important about a museum demonstration, anyway? He never said why. Some who knew at least a little about him could guess the reason, some even tried to pry it out of him over a drink yet the doctor was obstinate. He didn't want people thinking he was crazy for denying the gravestone and the press, day after day, week after week. He'd simply call it an "appreciation of the Eastern arts" and leave it at that.

And, every Wednesday morning like clockwork, he would sleep in, walk down to the museum, and watch the ceremony. Regardless of tourists. Regardless of weather. Regardless of truth.

Just like clockwork.


End file.
